


tourniquet

by skysill



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood Kink, Blood and Violence, Choking, Claws, Complicated Relationships, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Exhibitionism with a twist, Exploring Dark Themes, F/M, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, How Do I Tag, Knifeplay, Mental Health Issues, Mindfuck, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Painplay, Power Imbalance, Rape/Non-con Elements, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), first snippet tame, some Canon Dialogue slightly paraphrased
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:34:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22080028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skysill/pseuds/skysill
Summary: From the moment Emet-Selch took note of that colour—that unmistakable chroma of threaded silvern essence—’twas but a jest that this parade would end in any other manner than ruin, be it hers or his.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch & Warrior of Light, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 25
Kudos: 119





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an exploration of dark themes concerning the power dynamics between the aforementioned tagged characters. First chapter is really just a snippet piece. I plan to move the chapters with some sort of progression, not merely as one shots. There will be both violence and non-con elements though this first bit is very tame. Tags and rating to change with updates. This is your warning.  
> 

From the moment Emet-Selch took note of that colour—that unmistakable chroma of threaded silvern essence—’twas but a jest that this parade would end in any other manner than ruin, be it hers or his. He had watched her from the shadows, flitting amongst the fairies of Lydha Lran. All svelte lines and frosted white skin, the likeness of gossamer swimming through a sea of flowers. Sweeps of flaxen gold hair lifted to the westerly breeze and that was when he saw it and recognized it for what it was. 

As crippled and as broken as she was, every pulse of this Ascian’s unsundered soul screamed that he would have her and in every sense of the word. She was **_his_**. No question, he would lay his claim. 

Thus did he introduce himself to the Source’s Champion of Light and her merry band of stalwart playfellows. Not as villain nor brother, but to reach a parley of sorts. He found himself thrown off by the very words slipping from his vessel’s lips, hints of truth lacing through all the same. Every one of her underlings seemed less than enthused by his proposal but she. 

No, she had been curious from the start. Her pale eyes met his own, too much mettle for her own good. And she appraised him, head to toe—with all the air of nonchalance that he could read through as a pane of the clearest glass. 

It had been quite the bothersome task of finding her alone, at first. If not in the company of her most needy comrades, she was off helping some poor sap or another. Gathering random sundries or slaying witless beasts. Not until he bestowed that dreadful act of mercy upon her, weeding the mage’s soul from the churn of the Lifestream, did he at last fall on the opportunity to have her removed and within his grasp. Everyone had traipsed off, no turning of heads to see that their hero would follow. 

All was quiet while she looked upon him from afar, slowly blinking in the dappled shade of trees the size of small mountains. The more Emet-Selch gazed back at her, he could note how heavy her lids fell and how flushed her pretty skin was in the damp heat against the horizon of dark green. 

“I do thank you, Emet-Selch. Though…” She began walking into his space, the long stretch of her thin robes falling against the feeble grass of the forest floor. Her arms were crossed, eyes dragging over his form before settling to his. “I cannot help but wonder why someone such as _you_ would have performed such a feat. Saving a spare Miqo’te’s soul? That seems rather… untoward for a fiendish being bent on destruction and havoc or whatever have you.”

Her gloved fingertips swiped at the air with her words, her sense of moxie flaring in his face. She seemed unabashed by his presence, wholly unaware of whom she spoke to. Moreover, something in her stance spoke volumes of recalcitrance, mayhap for the sheer fun of it.

The Ascian smiled crooked in response, bruised dark lips curling against sharp white teeth. “So it is, hero. Though I would dare to say that you know little of what we Ascians toil for in our _fiendish_ path. You truly do know so little, don’t you?” He enunciated the last sentence carefully, drawing out the syllables all while leaning over her form and wedging the cool leather of his fingers over her chin. 

The warrior’s breath became caught in her throat, nonplussed by his move of touching her. Really, could she have been so foolhardy? But her hands remained free at her sides, no show of reaching for a weapon to ward him off. She looked back at him, breath heavy and the blush that dusted along her cheekbones was crossing into a full bloom. She was like clay in his hands, as he snaked his other hand around her waist and pressed fingers against the small of her back. Her eyes searched over his, and he could see more need there than what she likely would have wanted to reveal.

“Perhaps. _Though_ I do know if you do not lift your hands from me, I will promptly kick you in the arse.” 

With that, she grabbed his hand at her chin, wrenching it away and pulling herself from his hold on her. He chuckled from behind as she stomped away, deep frown smeared at her lips. 

He would have other such opportunities to play, to be sure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do note the tags and updated rating. It only gets worse from here.

> _She’s made of hair and bone and little teeth_
> 
> _And things that cannot speak_

  
  


It was not overlong before Emet-Selch crossed paths again with his little warrior, and on her own as defenseless as an insect. 

It was just after the first pass of night sky, with the defeat of Eros—true daybreak brushing shimmer over ancient woodland. She was found nestled deep inside the caliginous caves of the Ravel, with the whole of her perusal glued upon the crude simulacrum of his brethren’s downfall. He had been unsure as to whether she was putting up a front or if she was truly swallowed by the flaked and forgotten paint. Her dainty white gloves, shed away and besmirched by the creeping algae of the dank stone. The bare skin of her exquisite hands, pressed into the coarse mineral as if in some dark rite of prayer. Wisps of golden locks, aglow by the smallest reaches of light. Like some sort of sprite plucked from the bask of dawn, only to be trapped by sepulchral pitch. 

  
  


Save for the fact that she seemed to rather welcome it...

  
  


It took a great deal of restraint to not tear her meagre armour away and have her right there. To have the lush silk of her skin grated and bleeding against that bygone paint while he fucked her well and true, like some beast in heat. Ah, and all of the other things he wanted to do to her besides. He had a mind to take his time, if at least to a slight degree.

  
  


“Taken by my history lesson, are you? ‘Twas but a taste of the horrors that our kind faced.” His voice was low and barely echoed along the hollow of rock. 

  
  


The warrior seemingly froze for a moment, before turning to him with a strange look over her features—eyes blank and dark like a doll, fragile pink lips open in faraway reverie. She seemed a touch annoyed by his interruption. He could sense the thrum of her pulse, quickening in crescendo to the many chips and cracks draped along her soul. Fighting fit? Perhaps that had been a bit of festoon for the cause. 

  
  


Closer he stepped towards her, lessening the many fulms into just a few. As he shorn through that breadth of space, he was able to see the glisten of perspiration beaded over her brow. This was just before she so quickly placed that mask of fortitude upon her face and offered the visage of a stiffened smile.

“You seem rather keen to share your side of things. At any rate, it is not difficult to see that your words liken to that of only half-truths,” said the warrior. There was that same wild and defiant spark in her eyes, as if heady with the need to slip under his skin. 

  
  


No, he would not be made easy. Tempting, yes. And rightfully so, since he was already walking such a thin line. He held himself at bay, however. Slowly he clutched the claw of his fingertips to the fine leather of his gloves—if not for their protection, surely he would have drawn blood. Then prudently, he shrouded the gesture beneath crossed arms, with all of the semblance of apathy and levity to their exchange of words.

  
  


A tired smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth and an eyebrow turned aloft. “Believe what you may, hero. Yet I do challenge you to open that narrow space in your mind, to something greater and far less… _biased_ , as She would have you be led.” 

  
  


She scoffed at him with indignation, a storm brewing in those darkened eyes while she crossed her own arms and jutted out a knee with cheek. 

  
  


But Emet-Selch continued, taking another step forward—now so very dangerously close. Enough to smell her sweetness. Her eyes narrowed and she held her ground, despite the fact that her back was as good as pressed to jagged wall. 

  
  


"From your very lips, you say that I have shared only my side of things. Well, now. Is that not what your god, your own dear _Mother_ has done for the whole of your short life?" The Ascian offered, shoulders hunching into a little shrug. 

  
  


Still, he pushed until he was only ilms from her with immaculate robes mingling along her length of fine-spun gown. He could both hear and _feel_ her breath while he stood over her, glacial gold regarding her from beneath a sharp nose. "I can say one thing that could never be refuted. It truly has been quite the enterprise to pick up all of these _lacking_ pieces that She has left riddled across the cosmos." He could not help how his voice twisted to the last breath, unnecessary as it was. Any vestige of flourish had been charred down to plain rancor. 

  
  


The warrior peered up at him, nigh a fulm shorter and wrath evident in her stare. "Oh, and now am I supposed to hear you out? Feel _sorry_ for your plight? All of the innocents, their lives ripped to lesser than what they already had. Either subjugated or butchered like livestock. After all that sin from your Garlean throne, let alone the unknown atrocities you have committed withal as the Ascian that you are?” 

  
  


What was said was unremarkable. He had heard much worse, with far more colour and bite. Yet still the damned words hit their mark, perhaps given that they had been spat from her tongue alone. 

  
  


Then her _infuriating_ laughter trickled into his ears, niggling at something deep within. It slid down his throat, into his chest to fester with abandon. So much time had passed since he felt such a pull there, something pushing him past the boredom — the lack of care for aught, poisoning into a _seething_ ache. Her hate bled and married with his own, and he was sorry—if only just a margin—that he would have to spoil that perfect skin with his hands. But rest assured, he would paint the loveliest canvas upon her body.

  
  


The laughter died no sooner than when smooth leather coiled around her throat, cutting the hero to the quick. She reached for his fingers, to ply their purchase away as her skull was flung into solid stone with a sickening _thud_. 

  
  


Emet-Selch pressed against her, his basic sense of honour and decency at odds with the vile thoughts flooding his head. He brought his lips to her ear, after running the tip of his nose over the fine hairs just beneath the lobe. She was trembling, the sclera of her eyes now reddening with strain. “Ah, so it seems that you wish for me to play your villain? Is it because you've never had one so worthy?"

  
  


The warrior hissed back at him with vehemence, as there was naught else she could do with her mouth. With the span of his large hand, her slender neck was consumed by his grip, her airways clipped off and she was beginning to wheeze. The slight sounds of her whimpers and cries barely bounced off the wide cavern walls. She would have tried to lever against him with the rest of her body, if it had not been pinned down to stone with so little room to spare.

  
  


The Ascian only lessened his grip when her eyes started to drift to close. As he let her go, gasps ruptured from her mouth and quickly he captured her deep heaving breaths with his own lips. She froze beneath him, fingers clasping at the plush fur of his collar while he curled his tongue over her pout. He had taken full advantage of the fact that she was yet still trying to gather air in her lungs, unable to connect mind to body in order to shut him out. Instead, she only pulled him closer in the heat of the moment and, without fully understanding her actions, worked her mouth against his as she still struggled to breathe—if anything, at least through her nose. 

Her thoughts were a blur, somehow the fight in her giving way to baser instincts. And before either truly realized, the kiss had become searing, all tongue and gnashing teeth. Emet-Selch linked his fingers around the wrists at his collar, slamming them back into abrasive rock and her following moan was drawn into his mouth as he breathed it in. Teeth with too much edge pulled at her bottom lip as he parted away and she shrieked a touch loud as the skin broke through with a bright bloom of crimson. 

  
  


“Agh, you fucking bastard,” she rasped out, running her tongue across the ragged flesh to then spit back in his face. She tried to pull from his hold on her, though to no avail.

  
  


Emet-Selch was not affronted by this, not in the least. In truth, it was nigh impossible for a smirk to not curl at one corner of his mouth as his golden eyes searched over hers. If she was any bit attuned to how his body was pressed upon hers, she would have been able to sense how it affected him. 

  
  


And she was. The unmistakable protrusion swelled and pulsed along her stomach, driving her vision dizzy as she gazed up at him. He canted his chin down to her level, grinding her arms against the grit of stone. A fall of white fringe drifted down her cheekbone and blood speckled over one side of finely angled jaw. The look in his stare was something raw, predatory. 

  
  


“My, you are making such a noisy fuss,” he teased in wicked melody, and then dragged his tongue over her lip to catch at the pooling blood. She found herself allowing it, much to her chagrin. “We cannot have any of that, no.” His words ran from his breath as a whisper, ghosting over her mouth before he kissed her chaste. 

  
  


The kiss tasted of honey. A sudden tingling, not unlike a tickle, began to stir in the warrior's throat. Then it was gone. As she gazed up at the Ascian, into the eyes of twin flames, she opened her mouth to speak and nothing came. 

  
  


Her brow furrowed as the smile on his lips widened further, a tremor of panic surging through her senses. Uselessly, she opened her mouth to scream and howl and wail. ‘Twas for naught. 

  
  


“Save yourself the trouble, my dear.” Emet-Selch released his hands from her and for a fleeting moment, she had the mind to run. But then she heard the snap in the air, that haunting sound that she had heard before. 

Inky black tendrils warped from the crevices of rock, latching onto her wrists and twisting taut, binding them back at her hips. Anything that came from her mouth was muted to silence, including what cries she would have made when the Ascian wedged a knee between her thighs—with the aid of able hands with which to spread her knees apart, hiking the feeble fabric of her skirts aloft. He grasped at her hips possessively, sliding his knee just so that her head threw itself back, fair waves of locks tousling over her shoulders and breasts heaving as she bit her lip.

  
  


She was beautiful, her soul flaring white gold with the motion of her body. Through his parted skirts and robes, he could feel her heat bear down against his skin through thin britches. He could see the war in her mind, as she pivoted herself against him and met him in the eye. 

  
  


And then he moved his knee yet again, while simultaneously guiding her hips along his thigh. Part of him wished that he had not stolen her voice, to hear the cries torn from her lungs. Yet how would that have affected this most intimate performance by his little warrior? Surely, her sense of propriety would have gotten in the way. 

  
  


For how she could not hear her own wanton sounds, as she began freely rutting against him, dragging moistened pantalettes over the tense muscles of his thigh, she was lost in herself. Reaping her need from him as he coaxed her on with his rich voice, as smooth as a feather over the flesh of her throat. It was so wrong and so so **so** corrupt, though she could not help it. She felt she was under a spell, but knew herself enough to know that the blame lay not only at his hands.

  
  


“Yes, that’s it. You’re so very wet for me, hero,” he purred into ear, teasing his tongue over the delicate curve of skin, burying his bare fingers into her silken hair—at some point, his gloves had been snapped away. 

  
  


His other hand winded down her collarbone and beneath the clothing binding her breasts, cupping the soft flesh while she pressed herself from the stone to get closer. Her wrists were still bound, which was maddening to her. A sheen of sweat had gathered itself all along her body from their playtime. She lolled her head over his shoulder, lips to the surprisingly warm skin of his neck as his fingers creeped down to the now drenched material at her slit. A shudder rippled through her when his forefinger swiped at her wet folds, fully along the paltry cloth and thus inciting her to grind into his touch. 

  
  


“Ah, ah, ah.” He tutted, an octave dropped in his voice, thickened by need as he pushed her back against the darksome bindings that slithered forth now up her forearms—bracing her body further and acting to suppress any such additional play of power. 

  
  


Slowly Emet-Selch worked his fingers under her pantalettes, sliding them over her slick as his other hand clutched the hair at her skull tight enough for her to wince in evident pain. He pressed his mouth to her ear again. “Let me do the honours.”

  
  


With the last word, as it rolled from his tongue, he thrust a long finger deep into her cunt and his thumb rolled neatly over her clit. Immediately, her hips hitched what little they could against him even though she sadly lacked any full range of movement. The warrior’s lips were now raw from her own teeth as she moaned soundlessly into the shadows, Emet-Selch’s finger pumping into her clenching walls several times over before doubling up his digits inside of her. His mouth sucked bruises onto her throat while his other hand tangled into her long hair, bending her neck back as he fucked her well and worked her sensitive nub from under its hood. She felt his teeth scrape over her skin, sharp and burning, her legs uselessly splayed wide like some toy for him to play with. Soon, his mouth was on her swollen lips, tongue grazing against hers and the taste of blood palpable. 

  
  


The warrior felt she was unravelling, coming apart as she felt something shift in the air. All at once, the bindings freed and she heard her own heavy gasp when the Ascian parted his lips from her, his eyes trained on her face as she felt the rush hit her full force with a resounding howl. Her hands swiftly clasped around his neck, spreading over dampened fur from his own sweat. The cries echoed throughout the cavern, her head thrown back with gown draped over as a mess, thighs trembling uncontrollable around his fingers. 

  
  


She was stunning in her fall, slumped over the tragic backdrop of Zodiark’s defeat. Though she dared not meet him in the eye, the shame plainly written even as she watched from beneath low lashes—Emet-Selch sucking her need from his fingertips, with all the sensuality that one could imagine. And he could not keep himself from combing her hair back with his other hand and kissing her dewy skin as she caught her breath.

  
  


When she finally lifted her eyes to his gaze, her once pale skin now flushed to a comely pink, her jaw clenched tightly and she pushed away from him. Why he allowed it, for her to just walk away like that, this was lost on him. 

  
  


The length of her crumpled skirts fell back down to the grimey cave floor, smudges of dirt and other sundry stains mottled and streaked upon its weave. A hand stretched down to gather her gloves and then she sauntered away toward the light, abandoning the shadow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, it got worse. Though this turned out more fluffy than I had originally intended, in the most unhealthy sense. Please be mindful of the updated tags and enjoy. :)

> _She comes on like a crippled plaything_
> 
> _Her spine is just a string_

After what had transpired in the Ravel, Emet-Selch learned that Hydaelyn’s Warrior of Light was quite skilled in holding fast to her poker face—no semblance of discomfiture in the least whilst keeping faith with her title as most prized hero. As if he’d not had her bound, bent, and begging against the filth of primordial rock just a short while ago. 

  
  


Although her shame and contempt had been evident in the immediate aftermath of their activities, he had witnessed something in her that smouldered within his own aether. Something he wished to explore further. 

Thus, the Ascian found himself watching her more carefully than ever—lurking in the swartest of shade with eyes alight and ensnared by her every move. It was most interesting to observe how sedate and resolved she had been when Vauthry’s sin eaters besieged Lakeland. How swiftly she had cleaved through the twisted creatures, and how she made all the others look like children playing sword and shield. 

She appeared an angel incarnate as she danced in the rain with her blade, the blood from her wounds running rouge down silk skin and along the halo of her broken soul. She became lost in herself, falling back into a trance of sorts until at last, the remainder of the eaters had been driven away. And the fire that burned in her, laid in wake from the thickly spread ruin—it was truly divine. He would have it intensified. 

Once plans had been made for the brigade to scamper off to Amh Araeng, and after Emet-Selch had his treat of poking fun at the gun-wielding husk, he quickly decided it better to hang to the sidelines. For one, it was dreadfully hot and _boring_ in that stretch of foul desert. Even the warrior appeared beset by the heat and the tedium of seeing the trolley to Nabaath Areng. Pity he could not find it in himself to lift a finger to help her. Quite the reverse, he had rather enjoyed watching her suffer.

He would not come to her until after she slayed the Lightwarden from the depths of the abandoned well and her soul became doused with Light ever more. In spite of her insouciance, it was clear that she was coming undone piece by piece with every hour. ‘Twas curious that some of her flock had been on to it for a time. Even the mysterious "keeper" of his own masterstroke of Allagan genius, the cowled Exarch, appeared to be restless for her wellbeing as he shifted about like a fool at the door to her inn room. Though they let her stay the course, as hopeless as it had been from the start.

Some time later that very night, when Emet-Selch slinked from the void and into her chambers, the warrior was unwitting as he did not make a sound and his form was veiled in glamour. He had been unable to stop himself from going to her, what with how _afflicted_ she appeared to be.

She lay nude and tangled in the sheets, skin flushed and breath quickened with one hand buried between her thighs. Her long hair tumbled upon the pillow as waves of yellow moonlight and her glazed eyes were pinned to the ceiling, half-lidded and unseeing. The sight was spellbinding to the Ascian, regardless of the many delights he had garnered over countless lifetimes of debauchery. His vessel’s mouth veritably watered as her body curled and shuddered, legs spread wide though what lay between remained hidden from view by linen. Her soft moans were of music, a delicate prelude of what was to come. 

He crossed over towards the bed until he was a fulm from its foot, quietly observing as she turned a nipple with her free hand and worked towards her pleasure with the other. There was just enough curves and muscle revealed to make it impossible for him not to interfere. He wanted to feel her again as before, a step further this time. 

Not pulling his eyes from her writhing form, he peeled the white leather away from his right hand. Then, with a halting movement, he reached his fingers to the hem of the sheets and slid them underneath to graze so very gently at the top of her foot. She shifted some under his hand, though she did not feel it; he had made sure of that. If she had been more grounded and within her wits, it is feasible that she would have felt him as he spread his fingers around and up the narrow ankle to the bone of her shin. But his touch was barely there at all, and still numbed moreso by magicks. As if he were the air itself, stretching the span of his tour along her limb up north to her knee, bowed and splayed as she licked her bottom lip, catching it between pearl teeth. 

He then allowed his aether to uncoil and breach into her space, to lick smooth over her own aether. She would feel this, though as unschooled as she would be in such matters of aetherial shift, the warrior likely would know naught of what she was experiencing other than an intense sharpening of her visceral gratification. Ah, she was so close—he could see it so plainly while he leaned over and trailed his forefinger down along the inside of her thigh, supple flesh trembling below.

Though it would pain him to admit, Emet-Selch did not realize that his concentration had faltered a modicum as his fingers pressed at her skin like velvet, eyes caged by her visage while she whimpered beneath him in her release. It was a clipped name that died on her tongue with deep swallowing breaths, though it was there just the same. 

Unthinking, his hand grasped fully at her thigh and she buckled forward, catching her weight on her wrists with a choked gasp. The sheets spilled down to her waist, breasts nigh upon his lips while his heated gaze locked on hers. His glamour, all forgotten.

“Wh-what! Emet-Se—”

The Ascian gripped his gloved hand roughly to the warrior's mouth, shoving her back down with force into the pillow as he braced a knee to the mattress. It was not a kind gesture, dropping his mouth down to her ear along the dampened hair at her temple. 

“Now, now. I shall not want to have to seize hold of that voice again. Your singing is quite lovely, hero.” As he rasped into her skin upon her heaving form, he slid his free hand up to the apex of her thigh, just shy of her mound to make her heart stutter. Only then did he drag his bare fingers so painstakingly slow along the crease of her pelvis, outwards to claw at the fullness of her hip and hitch her body firm against his. She sobbed in pain from the unnatural sharp pressure of his grasp—not unlike a knife digging to the bone even as his warm breath brushed softly against her cheek, disarming as a paramour might. "Most especially when you cry out my name like that.”

Without question, the warrior became incensed by his words and chose to ignore the surge of heat spiralling down her navel. Her eyes, the colour of paled peridot, glowered dark as she opened her lips to his hand and drove teeth into fine leather, then flesh. Emet-Selch drew in a faint hiss to the action, before a deep chuckle bubbled up from his throat. He did not pull away as she had hoped, his eyes blazing into hers with a sneer while the fingers at her hip clutched more viciously, their honed bite stabbing into skin like thin parchment.

The anguished groan from her throat rumbled against his palm as she attempted to shed his hold from her, twisting her body and thrusting an elbow to his chest. He fell back just enough for her to find an angle to free herself, tapping into untold strength to spike her knee hard into his gut and knock him with great force from the bed. The sharp sound of a sinister chortle rattled in the dark as he held his ribs and righted himself from the blow. Quickly the warrior pitched her form forward to settle on all fours, blood trickling down her thighs into the linen sheets and appearing as some wildling as she stared him down. 

“ _Oh_ , you wound me…” He could only laugh with more resonance, granting her some space as he wiped away a fake tear with a gloved finger and brushed off the silk of his fine robes for pure show—actually pleased with the fact that he smeared some of her blood upon its weave in the process. “And _there_ is that spirit that I have heard so much about on the Source. You were so _yielding_ to me before, I had thought you must have rather enjoyed my ministrations. What ever has changed your mind, my dearest?” 

She watched as he brought a wicked gold-tipped claw to his painted lips, her breath going shallow when he pulled his tongue very slow over the crimson slicked along its point. Then, with a waft of ebon mist—not unlike the dark aether churned from the void—he flicked his wrist and the claws were gone. 

“Why have you come?” Her question came out winded, rose-petaled mouth parted amid a sea of tangled blonde locks. 

It was evident that the gouges in her pelvis were throbbing, just in the manner with which she bit at her pout and winced when she sat at her knees. As if only just realizing her naked form in front of the Ascian, her hand swiped at the sheets and wound them around her to protect what modesty she had left. 

Emet-Selch offered a half-smile before stepping closer to the bed, placing the leather of his left forefinger and middle finger to his teeth and pulling the glove away. The bruising welt at his palm appeared glaring even in the faint glow of the room by candlelight, his gold eyes examining the damage in more detail while placing his other hand at the hip.

“I should think that you would know the answer to your question by now,” he murmured faintly, focus still bent on his hand before breaking it to settle upon her face. A snap clicked into the quiet and his hefty outer robes had vanished. What was left behind was sable silk shifts on ashen white skin.

The warrior did not shrink from him as he closed the remaining distance and stood before her, her eyes searching and jaw clenched while she worked the paltry fabric around her body more tightly—as if to will it into armour against him. 

“Get out, Ascian. I’ll have none of your games.” The instructions were clear enough, and there was an edge to her voice. Her next actions would serve to betray her, nevertheless.

He tilted down towards her and placed a finger to her chin, drawing her more close by merely hooking said finger by just a fraction. The sheets she once held onto as a lifeline loosened and her eyelids drooped. She did not realize that his dark aether ghosted over hers, wrapping and braiding through with magicks—like a drug, soothing over a calm that she would have initially found inexplicable with the likes of him. It opened her up, and then laid her bare. It appeared that she wanted this just as he, as unspeakable as it was. 

“Tell me again and I will obey, hero.” 

Emet-Selch breathed the challenge upon her lips, warmth flushing over before he kissed her with an unnatural softness. She yielded with some hesitation, mouth parted ever so enough for him to deepen the kiss with his tongue teasing slow and sensuous against hers. The strength in her bones soon waned, draining from the marrow until she lay pooled into the sheets. And her voice failed her, the words drifted just out of reach while he crawled over her limp body. One hand kneaded with purpose into her breast, and the other buried itself into her hair—holding her to an angle that only he approved. 

He let his teeth slip to her bottom lip, snagging at the flesh as he pressed a knee hard between her thighs to which she involuntarily yet quite weakly rolled her hips against. The ever-present stamina she usually possessed was woefully depleted, and she could do little to stop him as his mouth sank down her body, with fingers tearing at the sheets that lay between them. Her muscles were deadened, whereas her nerves were on fire. With each swipe of plush tongue and every scrape of pointed teeth, she felt her every sense pervaded while his hands followed in tow. 

The warrior could barely protest when the claws emerged again, the glint of gold dull in the dim light.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Her voice was so very hushed, as if telling a scandalous secret. ‘Twas a wonder he could hear her from where he was settled comfortably between her legs, grazing knife-like edge over soft skin. 

“If I may, I would like a taste.” Emet-Selch said this with disconnect, his dark lips dragging over the flesh of her thigh and just south of her untouched, sodden folds. 

Before she could say anymore, a keen pierce of pain shot through her body as the tip of one claw punctured deep within her trembling thigh. Bright red swelled over rich aurum and streamed thick down her pale skin. He dipped his tongue to catch the blood, mouth sucking her essence while his darkened eyes locked with hers. Despite the pain, her carnal moans told otherwise of the effect this had while her hands fisted restlessly into the bedding. 

“Ah, _fuck_. You’re a godsdamned animal,” she sighed out, but nearly choking when (without notice) his tongue lapped hot and wet at her slit, running blood with her honey. 

A deep groan rumbled from his throat at the sweet taste of her, hitching the warrior’s enervated limbs over his shoulders and she could feel the sharp brush of his talons over her backside as he wrapped lush lips around her clit to suck without relent.

It was as excruciating as it was enthralling, for she had barely any energy to move, to press and stroke her dripping sex against his mouth while she fell to pieces. She wanted it so badly: control. He could see it written all over her flushed and shivering body, undeterred by the fact she was fundamentally paralyzed. The brilliance of her soul, as channeled with Light as it was, had even grown faint by his suppressive magicks. A thought wormed into his mind that he would love to see her writhe beneath him, to have her scream out his name as she slaked her need from him. To see and feel her soul pulse properly beneath his mouth. 

Thus, in spite of how foolish the notion was, he slowly seeped the warrior’s strength back into her body. His aether washed and billowed over her in rising waves, this time all at once invigorating as he continued to work his tongue along her supple flesh. And it was the most erotic thing, watching the life being breathed back into her being, her soul burning platinum before his eyes. 

Her fingers snaked into his wine hair, nails scratching harsh along his scalp as she pulled him into her more closely. He, in turn, scored gold down the planes of her stomach, breaking the skin just so and making her soak into his mouth. She would have alerted everyone within the Pendants of their lechery had he not taken measures to enshroud them in glamour, to muffle her lilting soprano.

“It would seem that you take a liking to pain,” he hummed whilst trailing claws—steeped in crimson—down her form where they reshaped back to normal. Streaks of blood traced delicately along her creamy skin, as a vignette of sorts. 

The warrior stilled ever so beneath him, as if served a heated reminder by his words but it all became forgotten so shamefully fast.

While carefully watching her blushing countenance, the Ascian hooked a finger into her cunt, feeling her squeeze so snug around him before adding another as he suckled and kissed her swollen clit. He then began to fuck her this way, skilled fingers buried and tugging, scissoring deep within as his mouth saw her to completion. Her eyes met his and her cheeks only reddened more furiously with the lewd wet sounds of her body being thrown at his mercy, crumbling apart from the sight of him betwixt her dewy thighs and the intense look he was giving her—she could not quite place it, the shine and deference in his unwavering gaze, laced with the faintest whisper of some unspoken turmoil inside of the moment between them that had set her heart racing.

As if she could not stop herself, just as she began to hit her peak, the warrior did something unexpected—taken by a whim that saw fit to shatter any lingering vestige of misgivings for her part. She first tightened her thighs around the man's neck into a deathlock of sorts, forcing him to free his fingers from her. With an abrupt maneuver, she then flipped him beneath and steadied her weak knees to ride his face. It was all so very unforeseen that it would have nigh appeared natural. 

In a word, Emet-Selch was too stunned, too _aroused_ by it to do aught but acquiesce. He greedily grasped onto her hips as she dragged her slick mindlessly over his mouth. It was unlike him to relinquish control, though perhaps that is why he loved it all the more. His tongue fluttered and swirled and pressed flat over her fragile nub until she was shaking uncontrollable around him, falling apart while desperately wresting fingers into his hair, the teasing scrape of teeth tipping her over the edge. A stretching, hoarse cry shuddered from her lungs no sooner than he plunged his long tongue deep inside her clenching sex and she found herself chanting his name as she came _hard_ onto his face _._ He braced her thighs with a powerful grip around his head and shoulders, to press her to his mouth and lave over her far too sensitive folds. He relished in her flavour until she was the first to break away with a strangled whine.

She pried herself from him only to wearily collapse over within the little space left on the bed. Sweat and dried blood clung to her skin, and tendrils of hair fanned out wild around her as she cast a blank stare to the vaulted ceiling. Emet-Selch looked upon her, in turn, bereft of coherent thought. 

“What in the seven hells is this?” she muttered breathlessly just as he nearly placed a tender kiss to her shoulder.

He knew as little as she did, if not less.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh, I had fun here. And then shite got real. T_T

> _I wrapped our love in all this foil_
> 
> _Silver tight like spider legs_

  
  
  


Indeed, Emet-Selch knew so little of what he could call this venture that he had initiated with the Warrior of Light. What had begun as a game, a simple _distraction_ —it had become something else altogether. Something that he foolishly did not take pause to put any thought to. And matters were only made worse when he decided to waltz into the Ocular yet again. It could not be helped, as he was so surely drawn like a damned moth to the flame. That said, mayhap he should have let that flame die down some before making such haste to touch once more.

  
  


The words spilling from his lips made his stomach turn. Why did he _care_ so much to enlighten them of the wretched truth? That they were only ghosts, crippled mockeries just _barely_ existing piteously within the rotting carcass of a star stolen eons ago from his brethren. They would _never_ remember as they flailed about, wasting themselves blind on Hydaelyn’s hidden agenda and none the wiser. Just as they would _never_ accept the truth for what it was, any move towards an alliance being made for naught. For this was to be a bloodied schism until the end, with only one victor to stand tall.

Alas, if he were being honest with himself, the warrior had taken in his second history lesson quite differently from the others, as was her wont. She quietly listened without censure and her pale eyes glowed as he elucidated upon the sundered state of the star. Those eyes only flared with ire when he made that jab about being the guiltless party if he were to murder one of their ilk. They were not _truly_ alive with those piddling half-souls, after all. 

Ah, but that remark had been meant for her all along. He could not hope to hide his smile when she devoured the bait so easily, her face flushed like a rose and well enough for everyone to witness. And, with guile, she was quick and careful to slip her mask back into place, to conceal how much he had scratched his claws beneath her skin. The others seemed unaware of what had passed between the lines, though he saw it plain for what it was. There was a dusting of pain interlaced with her rage. He knew that look by now.

It did not surprise him when she cornered him after everyone had left, nigh pinning him against the threshold of the vacated chamber.

“Oh _dear_. Do you think this a very wise moment when we are well within being interrupted by your cherished and vestal Exarch?” Emet-Selch grinned from ear to ear as the warrior scoffed, her cheeks reddening yet again under the azure haze thrown from the reach of surrounding crystal.

“Do not flatter yourself so. I merely wish to talk,” she said softly, folding her arms and swaying her hip with a failing note of impassiveness. The tension was there, all in the manner with which her tongue skated along her bottom lip as she considered him with hesitation.

It certainly seemed as though her facade was beginning to chip away—whether it was due to how close she was to the end of her rope or perhaps due to his company, it remained to be seen. Truth be told, it could not be denied that there was a certain familiarity that stirred between them now, which had been sure to follow their encounter from just the night past. 

One manicured eyebrow quirked aloft, he decided to humour her. “Well, do go on. Is there aught you wished to ask of me?”

The warrior pondered but for a moment. “You say that there were only three of you that survived the sundering. What of the others?” 

This drew a long-winded sigh from Emet-Selch. “Were you not _listening_? They became severed just as the star itself, into fourteen fragments. Though by the nature of our power, we of the unsundered may raise up one of their fragments and into their original state of office.” 

The look of bewilderment upon her fair countenance did not go amiss. 

“I should explain that the names you know us by are not our _true_ names, but titles of office. When there is a vacancy, then it may be filled by another. Many of our sundered brethren have fallen, only to be replaced with a fragment of the selfsame soul.” As he spoke, the warrior’s eyes grew sharp and her stance shifted to him more directly.

“Tell me your true name.” Not a question, she cared little for the lack of propriety in her demand. It was as if something awakened within her, and she would not be denied this.

Emet-Selch smiled faintly, so very faint that she would have missed it. “Perhaps another day, I may tell you. Until then…” A hand reached and slid around her slim waist, fingers splayed against the small of her back to press her close. The tiny gasp that followed made him chuckle and the slight delay in her pushing him back did not go unnoticed. Truly, she did not put up much of a fight at all when he lowered his mouth to her ear. “You are most welcome to scream out my title to your heart’s content, should the need arise.”

With the fall of his breath at her skin, the warrior could not suppress the tremor that fluttered over her body from the sheer heat of his words. ‘Twas a hopeless feeling she could not free herself from, a bird with broken wings. However, her wrath took on an edge of precedence to the weakness she felt in her limbs, and what she did next could be best described as ill-advised. 

It came as little surprise that she would push back at his embrace, which was what Emet-Selch had truthfully wanted besides—a bit of a fight from her, this time around. What _did_ surprise him, however, was what occurred _when_ she pushed him. Just as his hand loosened from her by a margin, she gave him a rather harsh shove into the unyielding wall, laden and carved in brushed gold. She then took no time to forcefully wedge the back of her forearm below his chin, thus exposing his throat for her to press a dagger. 

"I do not belong to you, _Ascian_. I am not yours to fondle and play with as you please," she hissed, digging its point into his flesh but not enough to break the skin. Her eyes were dark with malice as she peered up at him, he could spy this from down his nose and—oh, she did not understand what she had started. 

Slowly, Emet-Selch lifted his hand from her to join the other into a display of surrender, all the while musing over whether she could feel how aroused her little stunt had made him. He swallowed thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing unhurried down the flesh of his neck, and he noted how her scrutiny dropped below along with it to watch with piqued interest. 

Truly, the warrior felt helpless to do aught else but behold how the cartilage spread finely beneath his skin, so exquisite and white against the line of the blade. In doing so, whether by accident or hidden design, a trail of blood followed its point—the colour of rich wine, seeping down his throat as he softly sighed from the pain (or pleasure, she was not sure). She found her breath cut short when its flow reached the sharp angle of collarbone, precisely where that strange orb clasped at his collar and she could see no more due to his over-elaborate regalia.

“My, my. What are your plans with me today, little warrior?” 

The Ascian’s intonation was deep and low with what both of them knew to be lust, ‘twas a small wonder. And it dawned on her then and there that she was pressed into him far more than necessary, with breasts and hips flush like paint against his body. The tension rose ever more when she finally took note of the profoundly firm pressure straining along her stomach, felt visceral through all barriers of raiment--hers as thin and sleek as his was dense and heavy. 

Before she could snap back a reply, a noise was heard—one that nigh made her heart drop out of her chest. Her eyes became trapped within the molten gold of Emet-Selch’s heady gaze, the sound of footfall detected just outside of the Ocular. Deep snickering laughter paired with that damned crooked smile from over her arm, these were the last items she gathered no sooner than the tide was turned most viciously against her. 

With speed that left the warrior reeling, his large hand encased and tightened over her fingers that clutched upon the dagger, crushing the bones until she gasped and faltered in her hold. The blade slid easily from her grip with the motion and slashed into his neck further than he would have liked, though it produced the desired effect quite nicely. 

The sight of his wound made intensified caused the warrior’s guard to drop, the arm braced at his neck falling away weakened in her shock. To this, Emet-Selch took full advantage of, reaching at once around her shoulders to twist her smoothly and with minimal effort so that her back was to his chest. One leather clad hand clasped over her mouth as the other pressed the dagger sharp into her neck, grazing at the jugular within the same instant that the Exarch traipsed into the chamber—wholly unknowing of what trials and tribulations his poor hero was experiencing right from under his nose.

The warrior cried out muffled and in vain into the chilled touch of fine leather over her lips, for the Ascian had taken care to shroud them in glamour. Just as the Exarch walked past, she bucked against her hold, though that too did little to help her because Emet-Selch only took greater care to push the blade with more force into her throat. She immediately stilled beneath his touch as best as could be expected, the honed sting at her skin sobering by a fraction.

“There, there now,” he hushed into her golden whorls of hair, just at the shell of her ear. Her body inadvertently slumped into him with a choked and smothered gasp as he did so. The shudder of her form became intoxicating, the dip of her spine writhing and rubbing along his cock _so very_ pleasingly. With lurid gentleness, he grazed his nose over the curve of her exposed earlobe, then teasing his tongue over before breathing a heated whisper. “He cannot hear your screams, my sweet hero.”

Powerfully, her chest swelled and collapsed under his touch as he trailed the leather away from her mouth but left the dagger in place. His hand carefully swept away her lovely hair and, with all the tact of a paramour, he began running his mouth down the slope of her neck. His touch was intimate, _too_ intimate and, when juxtaposed to the bite of cool metal to her skin, the warrior was a replete tangle of nerves. Some part of her knew she could break away but at what cost? The glamour would be sure to fall and what would her host think if he saw her with the _Ascian_? Alone and together within his private sanctum? Thus, her hands remained at her sides with fingers bent tight into clammy palms.

She watched wide-eyed as the Exarch strode through the space in silence, and—with desperation—trying not to moan when she felt the now warm leather slip under her collar, beneath the feeble fabric to stroke and skim along the sensitive skin of her breast. Though what Emet-Selch had told her was true—their tryst was shrouded under dark magicks—she could not properly think it through nor accept it as a thumb brushed past her nipple, flicking the stiffened flesh and stoking a wave of heat that rolled down between her thighs. Her head lolled backward along his broad shoulder with a quiet sob, the exhale of scornful laughter from his breath fanning warmth over her neck as one hand palmed her without mercy and the other began to trace the dagger down to her collarbone. With her gaze trained on the back of her cowled patron, his own perusal was settled upon the Ocular glass at the far end of the chamber—with not the faintest clue about what dark deeds were to take place from over his shoulder.

“Hmm, what would our dear Exarch do if he were to see you in such a state? Do you believe he would save you?” 

The rich and canorous timbre of Emet-Selch’s voice bounced off of the domed walls, an echo as solid as thunder that could not be heard but by he and the warrior. She squirmed beneath his hand, to which he slipped his fingers north to her throat to enfold and still her movements while he guided the dagger’s point with precision along her sternum. The gauze-like weave of her attire snagged and pulled against its tip, and she could keenly feel its needle-like edge when it grazed over the valley of delicate flesh between her breasts. 

"Ah, I do wonder if deep down…" She felt his lips drag at the curve of her shoulder, stopping to press a lingering kiss to the tapered contour of collarbone. Then his mouth, hot at her ear again. "Would he think it preferable to watch?"

She could not hold back the throaty groan that curled at the back of her tongue to his tone, his touch, his wicked words tumbling into her head and making her quiver with equal parts shame and _need_. The hand wrapped around her neck was firm and unbending, leather planted with the purpose to keep her in check but not to inflict pain. For however much care he put into not hurting her with his hold, Emet-Selch focused an opposing disregard to her gown with the point of the blade that drifted south to her navel, ripping away the wispy garment into tatters. The warrior, in turn, became breathless as she pressed her back against his chest, the throbbing of his cock poised over her tailbone. Rather than breeding fear, it made her feel wanton and raw—no matter that the Exarch was in the same room. Perhaps all the more for it. 

“This will be the second dress you have ruined,” she managed to sigh from beneath his grasp at her neck, and had to shove down the urge to grind her hips backwards. 

Her remark threw the Ascian off, who clucked his tongue before nudging a knee at her backside—prying her limbs apart to have her propped upon his thigh as he leaned into the wall from behind. “So it is. My apologies, dearest. Though I must admit that you look much more ravishing without all these trappings,” he murmured, hand freeing from her neck again to drop to her breast and give a possessive squeeze. 

The warrior heaved into his touch and faltered a modicum when struck with how wet she was for him, with pantalettes lodged and damp against his form. At the same time, the dagger was perched at her exposed thigh, dancing and teasing upon tender flesh. For however wrong it felt to her at that moment, she knew she wanted more. Her hands were already fisted into his robes, tugging.

Suddenly, a familiar voice was heard outside of the doors to the Ocular, to which the Exarch turned toward. The warrior nearly choked on her breath when he lightly cleared his throat and spoke; if not for his ever-present hood, she could have been sure that he was looking directly at her depravity made manifest—draped as a whore over Emet-Selch’s knee, blushed and primed to fuck as ever.

“Oh, yes, Lyna? Please come in.” 

His soft voice made the burn grow as a fire on the hero’s cheeks, closing her eyes and pressing the side of her face into the plush trim of the Ascian’s garb. The doors creaked open and in marched the ever-dutiful captain. 

“Ah, such company we have now,” Emet-Selch purred low, leather fingertips walking south along her abdomen, the muscle there squeezing with such obvious tension. The point of the dagger was meticulously traced down, and then turned up along the softness of her inner thigh. 

Whatever the Exarch and Lyna spoke of soon became lost to their ears, a din swallowed to the atmosphere as his fingers slipped inside her pantalettes. The warrior trembled and rocked into his hand, butter smooth leather sweeping a scorched path through slickened folds, swirling ‘round her clitoris several times over before Emet-Selch sank a finger long and deep into her cunt. With each twist and twitch of her hips, the dagger bit into her flesh further. She allowed it, _welcomed_ it as the blade split through the supple yield of her thigh and bloomed a path of crimson. The sharp pain feathered and blended with the luscious heat of his fingers between her legs, coalescing into something nameless that snapped her into pieces. 

“Fuck, yes,” she whined, chin nodding and eyes drifted to close—blushing cheeks still buried in soft fur. “Like that, Emet…” And she could feel his cock pulse and throb into her with the words she used to coax him. He could do naught else but oblige her, dipping another leather-clad finger into her slick while rolling and working his thumb over her swollen clit. 

“ _Well_ , what a minx you are.” The warrior heard his hoarse whisper, her chin tipped aloft with hooded eyes parted open to the dark gaze settled over her vulnerable body. "And all **_mine_**."

Emet-Selch had precious little time to react before her mouth captured him into a kiss, raw and with abandon. The dagger clattered to the floor, forgotten. That hand was now laced into her locks, holding her against him as he gave as much back into the kiss—all the while, his other hand still fucked her into a sobbing mess against him. He did not even stop to think that they were alone in the chamber again, as he lost his way within her, in the sweet taste of her lips as she came undone around him. Her soul burned nigh blinding, mesmerising and broken and beautiful all the more. He swallowed her cries, the warm touch of her thin fingers curled into his hair while she rode her release to its end. 

There was no thinking from the time that he was standing, to when he was kneeling before her. The warrior’s back pressed into the wall, his mouth at her thigh—sucking and cleaning the heavy tracks of blood away. All before his tongue was spreading into her folds, her hands shaking and carding through his hair as he drank her down, feasting upon her like a man starved. 

“I want you,” she breathed heatedly, pulling his mane taut. “I want you to fuck me, Emet-Selch.” 

His eyes met hers with the demand. That was the nature of the statement, as dripped in need as it was. Not a plea, but a command to which he complied. 

A snap echoed into the chamber, hollow and deafening. The finery of Solus zos Galvus melted away into inky waves of obsidian, along with whatever remained from the warrior’s own ruined and bloodied rags. He slithered up her body as a serpent, running lips and tongue and teeth until his mouth was at hers. From there, he spread her wide and hoisted her against the uneven, sharp edge of gilden pomp, the lofty design of Allag created by his own hand. His fingers clawed into the back of her thighs, breath searing hot against her skin as she guided his thickened length inside of her slick. No sooner than the tip was within her, did he thrust his cock deep and unforgiving, driving a scream from the Warrior of Light that surely reached the heavens above. 

“By Zodiark, _you are exquisite_ ,” he rasped into her lips, pummelling her into the wall as she clenched him to her. 

In turn, she swept back his white forelock with her hands in a careful gesture, before taking his bottom lip between her teeth and tearing at it. This only served to stoke the heat between them, his hips bucking to her furious with smooth and measured thrusts as his tongue grazed along hers—the bitter tang of blood passed between their mouths. 

There would be horrid bruises upon the warrior’s spine before Emet-Selch paused but for an instant to hold her close with one arm, and then wafted his free hand to the air to conjure a wealth of plush, extravagant furs upon the very floor of the Ocular. He carried her there, lips never leaving hers as he laid her down in a maneuver too tender, too _personal_. This notion did not slip past either of them, but both yielded to it just the same. His bare fingers coiled at the underside of her knees, bracing them to the expanse of his shoulders as he pushed and buried his girth inside of her, sweat beading while he fucked her senseless. 

What cries that had not been hindered by kisses or biting were carried on as a litany within the cryptic recesses of the Syrcus Tower, a song hushed from his hero's lips during which he moved against her, sinking deep and slow and with purpose. Her hands were cupping his face, limbs shifting so that her thighs were wrapped around his hips, and she was whispering into his ear and against his breath. "Tell me your true name, Emet-Selch. I want it on my tongue when you come inside of me. Tell me, tell me, tell me," she cooed the words, begging and yet not begging. 

He was falling apart to that alone when she tightened her limbs around him and twisted the embrace, rolling his body beneath hers with unnatural ease. And then she began riding him, taking him with flaxen hair tumbling down the frost of her skin, breasts glistening with perspiration as she gathered his hands that rested on her hips. Her fingers twined with his, slender and drawing him into her, into the dead past as they joined and spent themselves mindless on each other. 

The name was hanging on his lips, just there to be set free and she smiled brilliant for him, a smile that stabbed him. Every glance, every touch, every taste and smell of her, it swept him back to the days of eld and filled him with a hope that would only come to spoil. Though it mattered little at the moment, so very little. 

Emet-Selch lifted himself, curling an arm around his warrior and running his tongue over her flesh, to then press his mouth to her ear as she unravelled as a ribbon. 

“Hades.” 

She came to scream that name through the morning until midday, after he had whisked her away to the shadows and relished in her light. 

And then it was off to the final warden. 

> _I never wanted it to ever spoil_
> 
> _But flies will lay their eggs..._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a smallish 5.2 spoiler buried in here. And then I slipped a little random head canon with it for the story, so I did not think it necessary to tag it as such. And just FYI, this chapter delves a lot more on the psychological end of abuse. Basically, more angst for the poor ratman. Hope you guys enjoy and please feel free to share your thoughts.

> _Take your hatred out on me_
> 
> _Make your victim my head_

  
  
  


Of a world once entirely blanketed in white, now only one realm remained under its curse—Kholusia, the inveterate home of the profane and fallen. This was, of course, barring the vast lands that had been razed to waste by the Flood; the Warrior of Light and Darkness would be hard-pressed to discover a solution for that particular conundrum. Notwithstanding, Vauthry had taken to Mt. Gulg, leaving the hero to brood over how to reach the stony haven hung in the sky. Considering how quickly she and the others were able to gather all of Eulmore's abandoned strays as their own, Emet-Selch knew it would only be a matter of time before the fates would be spelled out for her. She would be but one step closer, and the end was nigh.

  
  


Whether she would prevail or not stood little to question—her soul was fit to burst ere long, should she absorb the last of the wardens. But onward she marched as though it could not be helped. For she was the only one to stand as the martyr for this sinking, hollowed shell of a world already lost when Vauthry was but a babe. And all by the Ascian’s gloved and proffered hand, her sacrifice would be poised to initiate the Eighth Umbral Calamity. That is, if he bade it so... for her to suffer such a cruel undoing. He found that some part of him did not want this, despite how easy it sounded and how deeply the claws wrested at his soul, silent though sinister all the same. 

Be that as it may, Emet-Selch had erred greatly—this he knew well. So many rules had he broken in the past, so many times had he vexed Elidibus to no end by not following in tow with all of his meticulously laid plans. ‘Twas no secret that Zodiark spake through the Emissary; he had sacrificed himself as the heart of their Father, no less. However, such matters were made tangled in eons past. For in the beginning, all three of the surviving unsundered could hear Zodiark and were intimately blessed with His guidance, if at least to a degree. Only after so much time had His voice withered, though Elidibus made other such claims. While this alone could not have allowed for Emet-Selch nor Lahabrea to stray from their path, it certainly festered strain into the fold. Whether due to simple contempt or attrition or complacence, none were immune to such “mortal” conditions that the putrid, unending rot of time had gifted them, and thus they had grown distant over the millennia. A rift had been borne and naught could have been done to prevent it. 

In light of this, the Architect had observed with his curious mind, as was ever his wont since the days of Amaurot, that there were always different methods to be had. More efficient ways by which to skin the cat, per se. And not always were they led in the most efficient fashion—their lesser, sundered counterparts had been made quick work by the Champion of Light. No true surprise that they would meet their demise with her, given how _weak_ and _foolish_ they had become thanks to their fragmented nature. But currently, he was here in this particular situation because of _Lahabrea's_ folly, a blow unforeseen and altogether disheartening. How had matters gotten so far out of hand while he had been asleep, a slumber so brief that it passed over but in the blink of an eye? Thus, Emet-Selch found that he'd had to step in to mend what he could, to gather and stack the fallen cards just so—even with as crumpled and torn as they were. Whether it was to Elidibus's liking or not, it mattered little so long as it did not stray from their purpose of uniting the remaining shards and restoring Zodiark to former glory.

That said, with everything that had transpired between he and this hero, he could admit to himself that perhaps he had misjudged Hydaelyn's chosen. Having at her was but a trifle in the beginning, a way to while his time. Now the problem lay in what was stirring within, what he had been so rash to ignore. He had given his true name, such a gesture deemed _sacred_ , the sole knowledge of the unsundered and yet off he spilled it away to her. It was ludicrous, no reason in the least for him to do such a thing. She was like all the other malformed creatures that plagued the scape. Meek shadows of what once was — token scraps for the eaters to sup on, no more. She was no one. _Nothing_. 

And then Emet-Selch faltered as he stepped from the twisted bloom of blackened violet, his eyes quite ensnared by the very object of his grievance.

She stood alone and stared off upon the long-forgotten Ladder, now surrounded by humble and high-born alike to bring the rusted rubbish back to life. Suddenly it was difficult to not feel nostalgic as he strolled towards the weary hero, the whole of her focus lazed on everyone toiling and laboring towards some semblance of unity. Though really, their plights were quite amusing to watch for all of the lack of creation magicks. He did not realize that he had slowed his pace as he observed the spectacle, observed _her_.

Such will and fire. A small smile stole its way onto his lips, empty of pretense. 

Several separate occurrences did she try to step in to offer a hand, only to be shooed off each and every time. They wanted her to rest, but of course she was ever the tireless one—even after the fitful and... _compromising_ events from the last collective day. He could see so clearly how tense she was, how she was practically wringing her hands from standing still. It was much like beholding a dancing flame, her soul ablaze and blinding out the weakened glimmer of the others.

"Well, would you look at that, my dear. You have gotten the lot of them wound just _so_ around your little finger, as neat as a bow."

The Ascian's voice carried like a song to the wind, set aloft from the surrounding sea. As he came to stand several fulms away, the warrior's prior cool gaze became something broken and raw as it trained upon his cheshire smile. The tension rose ever more within her, along with unwelcome heat that could not be blamed for by the Light. No longer did she bother with masks.

"Nay, _Emet-Selch_ ,” she muttered, enunciating his title with bite—an odd energy passing between them as she uttered the name. She turned to meet him in full, gloved fingers grazing the air as if gracing him with a lecture. An unsought pang struck somewhere in his chest at the sight. “This is merely what it looks like when comrades join hands and truly work towards something. We do not cling to the shadows and puppeteer others to get our work done, like that of your ilk." 

Her voice was dry albeit immensely burdened, perhaps revealing more in tone than what could be taken from her words. A smile of ease was painted on her lips, though her eyes were still heavy. Emet-Selch arched a brow, making a theatrical display of a yawn before offering a deadpan look in return. So little did she know of the past. 

"Yes, yes. I cannot rebuke that, love. Though I, for one, can appreciate a good performance. And _you_ , my dear Warrior of Light, are found wanting in that regard. My, that stoic mask of yours has been chipped to naught. You may need to pick up those pieces if you are to prevail…" His voice dug into her skin, scraping and slicing at her resolve while he edged toward her ever closer. "And I will be here to watch. Do make sure that you put your good work into it. Make it _worthy_ of my time."

Just as the words fell from his tongue, Emet-Selch felt the ragged shank of sentiments that he had not experienced in so long, or at least—perhaps never as keenly as it shorn through him now. An unwelcome feeling of shame was littered with second thoughts from what had been said, all while he stashed it behind that same cold smile. He watched on as her anger simmered into a misty haze within those beautiful green eyes, a fine dew sprinkled upon the meadow. It hurt him to see her break. Why was the past haunting him _now_ of all times?

“But I digress. Your methods of conquest have proven to be quite successful, truth be told. ‘Tis a delicate balance between the conqueror and those who are conquered,” he began, unable to stop himself from spilling his own resolve. “The difficult feat lies in how to quench the glowing embers of animosity and maintain a semblance of peace between the two. This requires dignity from the conqueror and the conquered to bury the hatchet, as it were. You have managed to achieve such an undertaking, to my considerable surprise.” 

With arms folded, he could see the hesitation etched fine in her pretty features. The resentment had been washed away and shock was in its place “It’s a compliment. Take it.”

He broke his focus from her to take in the scene before him, and a strange comfortable silence settled between them. As unwanted as they were to him at such a time, memories flooded through his wistful mind of the past. The unity and the inner-strength of these individuals, it could not be denied—steadfast oddly enough with the abysmal nature of their lives. Still they strove ahead, even the most unaspiring lot of them worked with zeal towards helping one another. It dredged up thoughts of his home, his people. The longing was undeniable and _smothering_. And he could not find the fight in him to bite his tongue, to not regale the warrior of Amaurot. Her soul, that glorious familiar sheen nigh broke him as he spake of his history, _their_ history. He wanted to take her to the aetherial dream he had recreated from his memories, not some pocket within the void as he had before to lay with her. He wanted her to...

“... Not that you would remember any of this.”

The confusion spread wide over her countenance and immediately Emet-Selch reeled himself back in, seething voices bubbling up from the deep recesses of his mind to stop—abandon and snuff out that hope. She was meant as a tool, naught more than that. If he looked at her as anything more at this stage of the game, he knew his control would wane. Perhaps she would be able to contain the Light; if she were that strong, then she would be worthy to stand with them. He would use her for his purpose of rejoining the world as it was, and her power flexed with his would be a thing of glory. 

“Remember, you are of the Source. Unlike the halfmen here, you stand only to gain. Should you survive the remaining calamities, you will become our equal. A complete existence within a complete world…” 

She looked back at him with eyes unseeing, clearly shaken by his words. Before she could voice a reply of any sort, Emet-Selch sighed and wafted a hand in the air—a mocking gesture with a smirk toying at his lips. 

“Such a discussion we may have the pleasure for later. Off to work you go, my dear.”

He turned about to take his leave, taking a total of two steps no sooner than he felt a hard tug at the back of his robes. With a smallish gasp partly in jest, he twisted his neck and faced the warrior. Armed with a sharp quip with which to cut her down, the Ascian was rendered speechless when she grasped his bicep and yanked him below to put her mouth to his ear. 

“Come to me when I call for you, Hades.” Her low voice stormed fierce and torrid straight through him, stealing the breath from his vessel like he was some helpless teenage boy. 

He could not find his tongue quick enough to say aught in response, and she was already sauntering away back to her clueless brood just as he stumbled on something to retort that did _not_ prove he was so woefully afflicted. 

The smile that the hero offered just prior to departing, it told him that she could see him plain as day in spite of his tricks and costumes, even in spite of the chains that bound him.

He was just another lost soul, desperate and burning. 

* * *

Later that day, when it should have been night, his hero did call for him. And he answered, the fool he was though it could not be helped. He felt like he was caught within a maelstrom of his own making. 

It was in Eulmore of all places that she summoned him, shrouded in the castle within a lavish room fit for a night of sin. She had abandoned her post at Amity, feigning sickness and that she would retire to the Crystarium in hopes of finding some relief at the infirmary. She would be back on the morrow and had arranged for guards to help ward over the people while she was gone. Only a couple of queer looks from Alisaie and Thancred, then she was off the hook. There was little healing magicks could do to provide relief for stomach aches, after all. Everyone, none the wiser.

So there she was, settled upon a lounge proper when Emet-Selch stepped from the shadows of the void and into the lush, heavily draped finery of the bedchambers. Still quaint compared to the palace in Garlemald, though sufficient enough. The true scenery lay before him in living form.

Against the warrior’s pale skin, a long white kimono of sorts—so very thin and loosely tied to reveal that there lay nothing beneath. Her hair, down and flowing in waves of threaded gold. She glowed as a moonflower within the eventide, perfectly placed nigh the dimmed candlelight as she rose from the lounge and slinked towards him slow, as if she were _not_ the prey in this encounter.

“Nice of you to come,” she murmured, reaching fingers to trail along the tufted fur of his collar. Her hooded eyes hung low for a moment, and then lifted to meet his wicked stare. “Good boy.”

Emet-Selch had to hold himself in check, chin cocked just so to meet her challenge. His mouth parted, tongue drifting along the bottom lip as he skimmed the cool leather of his fingertips down her arm. “Are we so sure of that, my dearest?” There was a hint of malice woven in the words.

The slight tremor in her body betrayed her before he grasped at her wrist with his other hand, stilling her movements. He then took the most care in brushing her long, wind-swept locks from one shoulder, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the curve of bone. Her body yielded an iota under his lips, the smell of the sea filling his nostrils before he scraped sharp teeth over her skin and broke through with the taste of her blood on his tongue. 

“Twelve above…” she moaned heavily, head rolling back as he dragged his mouth over the weeping wound to capture her sweet essence. A groan rumbled from his own throat as she lifted a knee from her parted robes to rub against his stiffened arousal.

He broke his lips from her to whisper into her skin. “None of your gods are here, Bringer of Light. Better to pray to your Mother, though I am of the mind that she would not approve of such wayward acts by her chosen.” As he spoke with searing heat fanned over trembling gooseflesh, the soft white leather of his gloves split away the shift of material clinging over her shoulder, spilling it down her back to hang from her body. From there his hand roamed, slipping past her breast to run down the curve of her waist and over the swell of her hips, grasping her rear in full. 

The warrior knew what Emet-Selch wanted: submission. Part of her wanted that too. So very badly, she wished for his hands to touch, to _bruise her_ in places that he seemed to purposefully neglect. Though she did not hike her leg any higher than necessary, to make things any easier and thus bend her will to his. Instead, she worked him.

She lifted a hand to gently lace through his silken hair, raking her nails over his scalp and tugging _hard_. Then carefully she began to pull her form over his cock. Her darkened eyes soaked him in as he fell apart from such a simple ministration, gasping hot into her flesh even as he twisted her wrist behind her back in an effort to regain some form of control. The regalia may have been thick but she expertly moved her body along his, easing his erection in versed, teasing strokes with her knee and then thigh, to return back again and again. She could feel his strong fingers flexing harsh against her backside, gathering her close and practically rutting himself to her touch. And his mouth grazed over the column of her neck thrown back, all tongue and lips. Soft and sensuous, like a lover would to her jawline and finally her mouth. She could taste her blood with his kiss, and it flared a fire within that she never knew existed before.

Emet-Selch was lost in her as he had been that very morning, and he remembered his many mistakes from the past. How he had given in, though still he felt his hold on her loosening, her wrist sliding from leather and she pushed him gently back, back until a hard surface skirted the long sweep of his robes. His eyes snapped open as the warrior pressed him down into a simple wooden chair, breaking her lips from his in messy fashion with saliva trailing between tongue. 

He watched as she slowly straightened her posture, the flimsy white weave of her wrap falling misshapen from her lissome body and one of her hands brushing the fabric away as a fleck of dust on skin like pristine snow. Though now he could freely behold the canvas he had painted over her nude form—scratches and bruises and the promise of scars, all of the ruin that she had wanted him to leave be. She wore the marks proudly and she was the most enchanting thing he had ever seen. As she smiled down at him from under her nose, fingers working the clasp of his collar to pull his jacket away, he was unwitting of how he arrived to this situation. And he was too curious to make it stop. 

“What will you do with me, dear hero?” His voice resonated into the silence, thick and carnal with golden eyes aglaze by the lick of flames feathering in the dark. 

A ghost of a smile graced her countenance, bringing naked warm flesh to straddle him in the chair and keeping her gaze locked to his whilst pulling the gloved fingers of one of his hands to her mouth. With pearly teeth bared between pink plush lips, she pinched and pulled at the supple leather—one by one and with leisure, tugging the fine hide away until it was loose enough to whisk from his hands. If he tried to touch, she was quick to bite at the finger she was working on and none too gentle with the gesture. Only after she was done with the task, did she answer him and wreathed his divested fingers with hers to further prevent him from touching. 

“I will play with you, Hades.” The warrior said this in a slightly detached tone, pressing against him and both knew that her slick was making a fine mess of his robes. Her mouth brushed over his, a misplaced chaste kiss. And then her thin breath in his ear. “As you have played with me.” 

She lifted away from him and began to remove the rest of his elaborate ensemble, to which he allowed because now it felt too good to stop. The bask of candlelight bathed deep shadow over her form, dipping and swaying along each smooth curve with utmost care. She peeled every strip of clothing away until he lay bare from the waist up; only breeches and boots remained. He was tempted to just snap his fingers to do them both a favour until he saw the red sash in her hot little hands, a token borrowed from dear ol’ Garlemald. One eyebrow quirked up in interest. 

“Ah, what sort of game is it that we are playing?”

Emet-Selch heard his voice as though he were in a haze, watching as she wound the scarlet about her palms and then snapped the silk taut with a sly smile about her lips. Its sound cracked into the quiet as though a whip. As she leaned over to gather his wrists to the back of the chair behind him, by happenstance her breasts spilled at his mouth. She gasped when he captured a pert nipple, swirling his tongue slow and heated while she worked the silk into a knot. Her teeth chewed the pout of her lip, and she settled down into his lap again—thighs splayed along only the thin britches he was wearing. His cock throbbed visceral against her sex despite the barrier, making her feel dizzy with need. 

“Mmm well, this _is_ just a game, no? A delicate dance.” She sighed breathless and wanton when his teeth caught at her nipple, wet tongue soothing over the pain. “Who do you think will take the lead and win?”

The words stung, if only a little as his mouth dragged across to suckle her other pebbled peak. Was she truly ignorant of the veracity behind her jest, or was it not meant to be playful banter at all? Mayhap it was more of a parting shot. 

He pulled at the restraints, musing on how weak they were and both knew that such a device was a joke within itself. The sash was nothing, he could split it to ribbons with nary a thought but he found that he did not want to. Moreso, he wanted to see where she would take this _dance_ , as she had coined the phrase. Thus, he allowed her this. That is what he chanted in his mind while she sank down his body, lips stealing a deep kiss before she wended down between his legs, swiping tongue and scoring teeth in her path. 

The warrior was mindful of his pleasure, watching his face as she dappled her touch over his body. How hard or how soft he preferred her to be, how much to tease and how much to give. Her keen nails trailed behind her mouth, digging and scratching down his abdomen. She did not reveal it plainly, but she had taken care to file her nails extra sharp for this tryst. And it was a sight to behold, tensed muscles twitching while she drew them down his ashen flesh. Watching and feeling his body writhe beneath her mouth as her tongue lapped the blood that welled forth, its tang striking her dazed. His erection pulsed in rhythm with each ministration, and she could feel how very ready she was for him. Peridot met gold in a blur of black and rent cloth as she effectively tore the rest of his trappings away. 

There was no time for the Ascian to put in a word before he felt the wet heat wrap around his cock, his hero taking him as far as she could go—to the back of her throat and then tightly drawing her lips back up to the tip, tongue pressing firm along the underside of his shaft to then lap generously over the frenulum. The moan she pulled from him was sinfully intense and vociferous, enough for any of the neighboring rooms to take note of. Sufficed to say, he had forgotten all about cloaking their rendezvous in glamour this time around... A vague, unwholesome thought fluttered through his mind concerning the Exarch and that glass within the Ocular. He had not felt any eyes, truth be told. Ah, but they had all night and if she were to know of such a nuance, such a purposeful blunder on his part... One corner of his mouth twisted into a crooked grin as he stretched his neck back, allowing himself to lose his mind to her yet again. 

His wrists wrenched at the scarlet sash, full aware that its weave was fraying as she worked him into a delicious pace. He could feel one hand cup along his scrotum, gently massaging while her mouth devoured him in tow, taking turns between swirling her tongue and holding it flat, idly tracing the throb of one particular turgid vein every so often to add to his torment. Before long, his hips were meeting her in the middle and the quivering in his limbs was driving him insane. She was pulling him apart, breaking him in two. He both hated it and loved it in spades. 

As if she could sense the shift in the air, the warrior pulled her mouth along his length slow and with a loud, wet _pop_. Her eyes rose to meet his, face flushed with heat and that damned smile of hers back in place. His chest heaved on display for her, the visage of vulnerability bowed at her knees as she stood tall. More than anything, he wanted to push her to the cold floor and fuck her mad until she sobbed his name. 

And then she eased over Emet-Selch, toned legs straddling him and he could smell her intoxicating scent. She flooded away everything around him, all sense of order dashed to naught.

“You told me earlier that I am yours.” The statement was said with nonchalance, no ceremony as she grasped the base of his solid girth to slip him inside of her. There was no need for lubricants, what with how sopping wet she was. A sharp intake of air rushed through both lips and nose while she adjusted to him, her warmth folding around and squeezing as she gripped his shoulders. He could feel her nails break the skin there, the pain like a drug. His head was sagged backwards, gaze still glued upon her and there were barely threads holding his hands in check when she took him to the hilt. The pulse of her white gilded soul in tandem with her body, he was entranced by its splendour without exception. Her fingers slid smooth over the planes of his broad shoulders, then dragged upwards to card into his dark hair to pull him closer to her. A drift of white fringe fell over his leaden gold eyes and she could see her answer before she asked the question.

“Who do you belong to, Hades?”

Her mouth brushed over his as she began to ride him out, thighs clenching tight and core taut with the sheen of sweat. He returned her kiss, something deeply raw and unbridled in his touch, a most wild and starved glint to the rich jewels of his eyes. Still, she pressed him in the same time that she wound her fingers into his locks and bent his neck back, fucking him hard into the noisy chair. Her other hand was curled around his throat, drawing the hold more narrow and watching him buckle under it all, under **_everything_**. “Tell me, Hades. Who do you belong to?” She wanted to hear it, _needed_ to hear it. 

The sash was no more, tattered and torn along the dark marbled floor. Forgotten as much as he had forgotten all the schemes, masks, and shackles. His arms looped firmly around her, gathering her close and she felt her hands loosen their hold no sooner than his lips were smothering her broken, shuddering gasps. 

When she pulled away for air, he breathed out his answer against her mouth. She did not have the time to smile because he was kissing her still more, then standing to carry her to the long-neglected bed. It felt very much like stepping into the fog of a dream, where there are no real consequences or fears bred from one’s actions. One can wake up, then walk away from it all again and again.

Yet it could not have been any further from the case, the hanged man he was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, the last line alludes to the tarot card- the Hanged Man. Its meaning resonates well with Emet-Selch, imo. Look it up, some good stuff.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for anyone who was waiting on an update! Crazy times.

Squeezing the trigger had been the easy part.

Watching the Mystel topple and thud against his own theatre's stage—replete with the loftiest of aspirations. A lone boy’s dreams crushed of pledging himself the stooge to save these broken shards—to save his hero, his most beloved and precious Warrior of Light.

To thus leave the poor bastard to bask so very well in his failure, drowning to death in a hot pool of blood. 

_That_ had been the most gratifying, albeit so sadly short-lived.

Because as Emet-Selch beheld her just beyond the lovely little entr’acte he had taken care to script, seeing _that soul_ stretched beyond comprehension by foul Light, it was all he could do to stop himself from stealing her away for his keeping. To strike a match to it all—to watch each and every careful machination for the past one hundred years burst into flames.

No one living would have gleaned the sick truth of the matter… only Zodiark would know of the outright war in His disciple’s mind, or perhaps not even He in so dark a slumber. 

It was certainly not as pleasant as it should have been for the Architect to watch the hero break from the Light she so selflessly gorged herself upon, such an ephemeral and cursed creature hunched into a tiny ball of pain as he strode ever closer. And _that look_ in those tired eyes, even as he squinted to see for all of the defiled brilliance of a great yet riven soul on the verge of collapse. The transfixion there only lasted for as long as it took for him to reach her quivering form, the honeyed gold of her hair falling away from her fair face as she lifted her chin to meet his gaze. Disenchantment thus pervaded him to pieces, held and hammered together only by the virulence that soon eclipsed over, an inexplicable pull to tear her down to the bone. The chains had never coiled so viciously.

When he stood before the warrior, the vitriol coating his tongue even as he swallowed his shame and pegged her down yet more, the Ascian spared a moment to consider the dark inferno that now reflected itself within her eyes. Soft and shimmering green had dimmed to moonless gems of emerald, then blackened that much more against the splinters of white streaming from her being. A promise implied that should she turn, he would be her first.

The Light threatened to twist and smudge out her visage, flirting with a sobering suggestion of the monster she was fit to become. No beauty would be lost in the transformation, but would instead diverge into something devastating, glut with fury and abandon. The very fabric of her soul would paint the picture of how the metamorphosis would shape her and Emet-Selch could not help but to wonder at how glorious she would become, what heights she would achieve when her blessing would at last touch the taint of Light from within. How she would rise against her frail fellows and every other wretched insect, feasting on the lifeblood of all in her wake. The greatest nightmare yet to raze the land, leveling this pale reflection of the true world to infernal ash and rot.

Indeed some of these sentiments weaved their way in Emet-Selch’s words, proving it all the more painful for her. And the struggle within was never more disordered, tipping the scales between remorse and cruelty. Deep down, holed in and stalling, he very much wanted this Warrior of Light to feel such despair, he _needed_ her to feel the impotence of her every effort against his hand and to wallow in her ultimate downfall. To whittle down and carve out any remnants of resolve she still clung to with desperate fingers, so that she would at last bow down when he offered her refuge. And to perhaps, after everything… make her understand the _why_ behind all of it. He was straying ever so, he knew this. 

What he did not know was just how far the path would lead him.

As he rose to the skies aloft and watched the warrior weakly raise her dark eyes to his, the realization dawned on him that perhaps he needed this more than she did. If he had bade it so, all of these parasites could have perished on Mt. Gulg with the sweep of his hand and the Warrior of Light would have been no more than a caged bird until the inevitable. But he needed her by his side, no matter the cost. So many had fallen over the eons for this bloodied and ceaseless undertaking, so many sacrifices stacked to set everything right again for the star—to see it hale and whole, all as it should be.

If he had to shove this hero down on battered and broken knees, scour and skin away that vile stain left behind by her Mother, to sell what remained of her crippled soul to his insatiable god, then so be it.

_Anything_ to return what was lost. To return her to him.

* * *

> _Prosthetic synthesis and butterfly_
> 
> _Sealed up with virgin stitch_

  
  


She came to him alone and, for some reason, Emet-Selch felt a most irksome sense of forebode.

How the warrior had managed to slip from her brood and in such a precarious state, breathless and stumbling towards him and _still_ with a dogged purpose in her step—it was all a bit lost on him. While her soul heaved its ghastly glow against the deep blue of his haven in the Tempest, there was no mistake that she had acquired some aid for her affliction since last he saw her. From the child no doubt, that unfortunate waif of Hydaelyn’s making. Oh, but how very slapdash the work! He could see the filth of aether patchworked here and there, naught to stave off any pain and fretting threads to hold for mere hours. The Light would stake its claim soon. 

“And so we meet again, dear hero,” he said with a measure of malice laced through. “And all alone? How very curious.” 

The words echoed in the wide and yawning hall of the Capitol, its sheer expanse of space nearing on swallowing their beings whole. Odd that the two stood there, on floors of fine marble and gold. That this spectre of an edifice, thrown back from the stretch of both space and time, would serve as the stage for their final act. 

Where once they convened and connected as colleagues and friends. 

Where once they schemed on ways in which to better the land and build a true paradise. 

Where once they shared their first kiss… stashed behind closed doors and shed of all restraint—tangled along the floor until spent and sated. The games they played, true they came so close to raising quite the scandal, flirting with fire while drunk on one another—so young and stupid, in love all the same. 

Emet-Selch caught glimmers of the past in the colour of her soul, sharp and implacable to prick and poison while the warrior edged ever nearer, seemingly not caring for any frippery with the formalities of overture. Though her form wavered as she came to halt several fulms away, the look of her stare was steeled and she made haste to mold her trembling body as such. Her hand did not bend for weapon nor shield. She smiled, something cold and cutting.

“I thought it better this way. To spend some time and perhaps have a heart-to-heart in this sad hole you have wormed yourself into.” Her voice was at first calm and indifferent but, as she continued on, her tongue rasped with the rise of her rage. The tense muscles in her shoulders were unnaturally squared, and he could see her chest cave and rattle with each racking breath that stabbed into feeble lung. “This was what you wanted, no? For me to come crawling to you and what? Fall to my knees, then beg you for succor?”

The warrior cackled, then choked on a shrieking howl of a laugh, the shadowy emerald of her eyes piercing through the hazed white that bled through both lovely aether and shattering soul. ‘Twas a tragic thing to hear and no sooner than the sound split from her lips, did she double over and cough up curdles of spittle that flashed bright as stars when they burned into the smooth black marble at her toes. With hands braced at either knee as she wheezed for large gulps of air, still she regarded him with a crazed sort of challenge. Refusing to blink for the sting that would spell her demise, the meek things she kept chained and locked tight within. 

“You will _not_ have my undoing here, Emet-Selch.” She gnawed the words out through the hurt that had plaited without mercy along her being, watching the Ascian gaze back at her with his arms lazily crossed and a blank expression pinned on finely carved bone. Masked of feeling, appearing everything she was not. She felt those words shrivel in the dead silence between, brushed aside as husks by his hubris.

“Ah, yes. LIke the old times...” His tone was nigh playful as he broke the distance, eyeing her shrewdly from beneath his nose as she visibly recoiled when he reached the soft leather of his fingertips to skim and tease across her bowed forearm. He circled her, like nothing more than prey while he cooked up horrid plans in his head of all he would do to her, to bend and break her. It aroused him, made him harden in his britches with heated anticipation, and a small smile crept up his lips as he stopped to stand at her other side. She would not turn to look at him, resolved to hunch over and see red. The smile of his widened at her ear, when next the words left his tongue and the warmth of his breath brushed against her clammy skin to spawn a shiver in spite of herself. 

“But love, ‘twould seem that _you_ _have_ come to me and, though not _quite_ on your knees…” He placed a delicate hand over her waist and rolled his hips just so into her inviting backside with intent made plain, a gesture which rewarded him with a loud gasp.

Pulling away to abruptly face him, long ringlets of flaxen hair fanned around the warrior with the motion as she came to stand with spine ramrod straight and bottom lip firmly wedged between clenched teeth. Inwardly, she was screaming from her lack of foresight. The smile fell from the Ascian’s bruised lips as his demeanor morphed into an altered plane, more feral and spiked with voracity.

“... I do believe that we are off to a splendid start. Wouldn't you agree?” The timbre of his voice became rough, ragged as he somehow cornered her in the middle of the vast hall—she had the space to run but chose not to. The blush bloomed deep scarlet along her pretty face, standing still even as he followed to cup her cheek with such intensity to the glaring glow of his eyes to make her forget her place and lean into his touch. Their lips, just shy of a kiss. 

“As for your _undoing..._ ” A fevered whisper pressed like a brand to her skin as his other hand had already found its way again, now splayed possessively at her slight waist. With such lazed sensuality, he dipped his chin beneath hers, sharp jaw angled as if to drag her down to meet him in the netherworld. And she fluttered long lashes to close on reflex, unable to stop herself before it began, only to wrench them open when the firm line of his forefinger met her mouth to bar any such advance. He chuckled deeply, gaze trained on her plump pout. “Take care not to choke on your words as badly as you have been choking on that Light, dearest hero mine.”

With no thought for action nor consequence, delirious and blinded by bloodthirst, something snapped inside the warrior’s mind as Emet-Selch roughly nudged her chin away with marked disdain. Mayhap it was her diseased state getting the best of her or she'd simply had enough. But just as he made to retreat from her, she held him fast into an embrace—one arm wrapped snugly around his waist and pressing the whole of her body against him in a manner that would have been deemed tender, if not for the sharp blade thrust and buried between his ribs by her other hand. She met his searching eyes in doing so, damnable tears falling from her own out of unsought contrition and as soon as she tore the blade out, her fingers became boneless and the heavy steel clashed to the ground beside the long train of her gown.

Thick blood sprayed and scattered from the fallen weapon onto her garb and, as she released him—eyes never breaking away—a large bloom of red had already besmirched the creamy thin weave of fabric over her breast, so much so that one would think it hers. She could feel its damp heat steeping and spreading through to her skin as she watched the emotions play out on the Ascian’s face, more there than she’d ever seen before at once. Bewilderment, rancor, strife, grief laced with something else that she was sure could not have been further from the case. What he settled on was indecipherable, a dry smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as the white leather of his fingers swiped slowly into the blood seeping from his vessel. She could see that his perfect teeth were staining with crimson as he smiled, lending him a kind of wickedness that made her truly afraid of him for the first time since they’d met. 

“Oh, what claws you have.” It was said with such softness, disarming the warrior where she swayed as Emet-Selch reached a bloodied glove to cradle carefully along her chin. She had not been breathing as he slipped the gentle hand down south to her throat, smearing lush red against pristine flesh to then squeeze with a strength the likes of which she'd never experienced. Too little too late, a gurgled shriek broke from her breast as she raked sharp fingernails at the coiled leather and he only held her all the more close for the violence, mouth pressed along her cheek in a lurid, intimate manner. Immediately her eyes burned with the barrage of more tears, and she felt the weight of her every sin with each strangled breath against the hook of his thumb drilled fast into her windpipe.

The pressure of his grasp was more than worrying, dancing on the knife's edge of snapping her neck in two with one hand and she writhed wild against him as the panicked fight to live stole all her senses, limbs scrambling and kicking to no avail. She reached for his own throat, the heat of his blood collecting itself under her thrashing claws—a small victory and all for naught. Her vision soon blurred and white spots swarmed in from all sides, a chilling numbness beginning to feather at both fingertip and toe. Though she tried her best to meet his golden eyes between the deadening of her muscles, jutting her slackened jaw out with sapped strength to look upon his cruel and beautiful face with the last quiet prayer that chanted through her mind, wondering why she ever bothered with him, why she ever cared. As her eyes met his unknowing, now blinded with a soft white drifting over like snow, it was then that she just barely registered how his hand quaked against her tendons with strain and something else, something that washed full over the Ascian in his rage. A shift of balance, of control that clashed with the way he was bringing death to her in that moment. She would not see how his eyes had turned to glass, but hear and feel the faint sound of a stunted sigh hissed from gritted teeth and blown onto her lips. Just barely but all that was needed to set her hair on end.

And then she was falling. 

Emet-Selch released her without preamble, only to shove her staggering back with a force that sent her skidding across the glossed stone at her feet, backside crashing hard to the marble in a blitz of fierce ache. She wailed a broken thing of a cry that flooded the whole of the massive building, unable to bite back the spasm of its wicked path as something like seething ice spidered and seared up her spine. Hot coals burned inside her throat to bring it full circle, with every desperate wheeze for air that could not come quick enough. A heavy frown firmly in place, the Ascian sauntered slow to where she lay prostrate, fighting to push past the pain even as the Light shook inside of her bones like some sick reminder of her true fate. 

“I must say I still expected more from you, my sweet.” For every measured step he gained on her, the warrior dragged back on bent elbow and knee—sprawled out and squirming like a worm. He was bleeding out it seemed, profusely enough to soak a large portion of his sable robes and his boots squeaked with the wet sound of it squelching into polished stone. Dimly, he thought that his spleen must have been the casualty in her stunt. Ah, but he’d been dealt far worse. 

“Do not tell me that you have already given up so soon. Come now, you can do better. I’ve seen it.” He enunciated the last sentence with care and edge, watching as she finally slammed the crown of her head into the intricate gilding of the wall with a height fit for the size of giants. The blunder stole a pitiful little whimper from her breath, and his stomach turned for a split second as she looked back at him with wide, watering eyes. One hand had absently wandered to her neck, rubbing at sorely bruised flesh.

“Pl-please,” she stammered through a shallow sob, weakly lifting her body to slump her back to the wall as Emet-Selch came to stand just a fulm away. “You said you’d help me if I came to you.” Her hand swiped out to clutch to his robes, clawing at its length with no shortage of self-loathing. Unable to raise her chin, fumbling the rich fabric between her fingers. She ignored the blood and how it soaked the white fur into mottled shades of pink. 

A polished eyebrow quirked to the spectacle at his feet. “Strange, I do not remember the offer,” he said before reaching for her tousled hair, knotting a good fistful at the back of the skull and driving her up against the wall with it. The groan that was plucked from her lungs was coarse, teetering on carnal as he pinned her in place with his hips in heavy breath. If that was not enough, a sweet quickened sigh leaked from the warrior’s dry lips, thanks to the distinct pressure planted along her stomach. The aura between them was heady to the point of intoxication with the rich metallic scent of blood cloying to the air, all as something unseen curled from all around, spreading flames across her skin as his mouth dipped to her ear. For as wrong as it felt, she only wilted all the more for it.

“I seem to recall extending sanctuary so that you may face your unfortunate fate with _dignity_.” His teeth were at her earlobe, tugging and then sucking at the sensitive skin as he ground his hips deeply into her groin, no fight left when he hoisted a thigh around him and dug bloodstained leather into her mane with a ruthless grip. It mattered not how thick his regalia was, she could feel every ilm of him rubbing into her dampened pantalettes. All she could do was bite her lip harder and harder with every moan that threatened to spill from her lips, blood soon to bead upon worried flesh. Her palms were stinging from the scratch of her nails, the both of her hands balled into tight fists at her sides—refusing to reciprocate, although she felt it a forgone conclusion. 

“But pray tell me, dear...” The demand rumbled over her throat, Emet-Selch dragging his teeth down the bruised and reddened skin to her collarbone to press a sharp bite there. She sucked a small whining noise in on her breath, a most girlish noise that made him grin devilishly as he locked eyes with her. “Are you aware that with the Light within you feeds off of suffering, be it of the flesh or... of the mind?”

With the question, he sprawled the wide grip of his hand on her soft thigh, slowly sliding fingertips across the junction of her pelvis and skirting the lace of her smallclothes with the motion. He watched as she trembled, her chapped lips parted and hooded gaze acting to betray yet further. 

As she felt all of her resolve slipping away, the warrior became incensed by his provocation—how easily she was bending to him while his mouth drifted down her breastbone, dappling sensuous kisses into the bountiful cleavage revealed by the low cut of her gown.

“What of it, Ascian?” she found herself snapping in her own self-disgust. “If you are going to fuck me, then _fuck me_.” Her heart dropped an iota as the remark rang out into the silence. Its pace picked up with a surging speed when Emet-Selch paused mid-kiss, and then lifted sleepy eyes to regard her from beneath dark lashes. 

“There is more than one way in which to accommodate that request, love,” he purred quietly, before bringing his free hand—warm bare fingers to her breast, and she did not know when the glove came off and did not care as he cupped at the heavy flesh, pulling it free from her trappings and then proceeded to curl his tongue thoroughly over her tightened nipple. The long moan that broke from her was unbidden and wanton, held back far too long for her to keep in check. The sharp nips he spread over with teeth in between deep suckling and rough flicks of tongue, she found herself carding fingers through his silken locks of wine and frost—imploring him with thoughtless words of praise as he rolled his hips into her with long strokes that sang of _more_. And she wanted it, something wrested fiercely within her soul that _pleaded_ for it, for his skin like fire to spread over and burn her down to ash. Both of her breasts were nestled in his hands now, massaging and pinching at the ache as he brought his mouth to hers as if to kiss. She craned her neck to meet him but stilled the movement when her bleary vision hooked itself on his smile, something withering in the way it toyed on his flawless lips. 

“I must say, your lack of concern for _G’raha_ is quite perplexing. Not once have you asked of his whereabouts or wellbeing.” 

It was a knife twist to the gut and she tried, tried so very hard not to let him see how much it hurt. Because he was right... she had not asked. 

She had not _thought to ask_ , for as twined within him was she that all had been forgotten. The reason she was here, why this world was collapsing in on itself and all of the death that came with that and why she was dying from the Light in his arms and why her _friend_ was perhaps _already dead..._

The warrior forcefully shoved Emet-Selch from her half-nude form, and he allowed her as much with that godsdamned smile still in place as if it were sewn there all along. Quietly, she situated her gown and began to count back from ten, as if that would help as ire took precedence to the pain that was dealt. It did not go unnoticed that she was now covered in his blood, and briefly she panicked in spite of herself as her eyes flitted over the Ascian’s body. However, that most simple gesture unfortunately did not go unnoticed by him either. 

“Oh, my. Is that concern for _me_ that I spy?” 

She scoffed at him, instead choosing to deflect. Not realising the things she was about to say would act to rearrange the stars. “You speak of your palaces. Your old world of virtue and altruism. You look down on me and everyone else still living, stealing your place and yet here _you_ are the one slaving by the good for us all? You ask that we rid the world of life to bring back the dead and you ask too much. That is not virtue, Hades.” 

It grew quiet in that moment after she said his name. He looked at her and it felt like he had walked back in time. Her words were echoes from eons past, things that cut deeper than any blade could hope for. It was as if it mattered not that any effort be made to take this further, that the games they played would have led to him showing her their home and how it fell, that he would tell her everything and she would listen, that she would care. All of it was deemed meaningless, in light of the fact that—despite her soul being half of what it once was—she was still standing in the same place she always had, preaching to him about the error of his ways. 

Part of him mused on whether she could read him like in the days of eld, if she could see all of the many cracks that his god had wrought over untold millennia and the fester that perpetuated through endless sacrifice and burden. The thought became his axis as he closed the gap between them, no recognition for the fact that he had more or less staggered to reach her. Because still, he bled out before his adversary, and she had that damned furrow to her brow that made his soul ill. She canted her chin to meet his gaze, eyes as dark as voids and much like that day in the caves at the Ravel. 

His fingers snaked around her throat, and she allowed this as well as the pain that it rendered. No fight left to fight even as her breath quickened at his touch.

“Come, let us pay your friend a visit." 

**Author's Note:**

> All of this was basically triggered by a song of the selfsame title from the fic, by Marilyn Manson right [ here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MmfQ7gSaJgM).  
> I plan on constructing out some of the themes in this song into the story, so I do recommend giving it a listen if you haven't already heard it.


End file.
